Inell's Fanfiction Archive

"You will never leave me, my dear."


The voice was deep, the tone smug. It was straightforward, leaving no room for argument. He saw no need to be threatening, believing such nonsense was far too common and unnecessary. After all, it was obvious that she found the calm, matter-of-fact way in which he spoke far more dangerous than vulgar threats. With seven words, her hope diminished.


She was uncertain how long she had been in this room. Days, weeks, perhaps even months. Time no longer meant anything to her. It hadn’t since the battle at Hopechurch, a small village not far from Bath. The Order had heard of Voldemort’s plan to raid the village with enough time to make their own arrangements. They had wasted no time in gathering their forces, intent on finally ending the War once and for all. When she had arrived at the village, the battle was raging fierce. It had looked as if it might finally end, as if Harry might actually succeed at defeating Voldemort. She had been distracted just for a moment. One second was all it took for the curse to hit her, knocking her out. When she woke, she was a prisoner. Tom’s prisoner.


A part of her knew that it wasn’t really Tom, that it could not possibly be Tom, that it was just the image in which he chose to show himself to her. Voldemort. It had to be Voldemort because he knew things about Tom that no one else would know. There was no explanation for why he was Tom for her nor did she particularly care for one. Thinking had always been Hermione’s forte, not hers. It made it easier, in a way, to see Tom’s face. It did not make her confinement acceptable and he frightened her more with the handsome face and charming smile but it made some elements of her captivity more tolerable.


When she had first woken up, she had tried to find a way to escape. There were no doors, no windows, seemingly no way to enter or leave. During her incarceration here, she had never stopped trying to regain her freedom. There were times when she would be too tired, lying on the bed and staring at the wall, convinced she could hear Hermione’s voice reading her stories of Muggles and acts of bravery and romance. The soft voice of her friend comforting during this horrid experience.


Sometimes, she would not rest at all. Her hands would move over the walls, touching ever amount of space, knowing there had to be some way out. She would hear Ron, Harry or one of her brothers in her mind, telling her to fight, to find a way back. Then there were other times that she would sit and cry, her arms wrapped around her knees, silent tears on her face, the voice of her Mum and Dad whispering words of love and making promises to never give up hope for her return.


The room itself was not what one would normally call a prison, but Ginny had seen it as nothing else since first opening her eyes to find herself lying on the large bed. It was larger than any room at her home, dominated by a large bed. A bookcase lined one wall, filled with titles that would have Hermione salivating but were of little interest to her. A writing desk and chair were on one wall, a large wardrobe facing it on the other wall. There was always a stock of parchment and quills, and she had spent a majority of her time writing letters to her family and friends that would never be delivered. Apologies for things she had done in the past, scrolls telling them how much she loved them and how much she missed them, parchment after parchment of words they would never see.


The wardrobe held an array of expensive robes, the material higher quality than anything at Madam Malkin’s, and a smaller dresser contained equally lavish knickers and bras. She had not worn pants since he had taken her, always wearing a robe and underwear, nothing else. Not far from the wardrobe, there was a large fireplace, lacking floo access of course. A short distance from the fire were two chairs and a small table that held a wizarding chess set within its interior. On occasion, he indulged her by playing a game or two of her choosing. To the outside observer, she was treated like a guest with generous accommodations.


If one looked closely, however, they would notice the smaller things. The whip that always seemed to break her skin when used too roughly. The leather straps that had rubbed her wrists raw when she tried escape. The set of knives that had ruined many an expensive robe as well as marking her pale flesh. All of his toys were placed around the room. Not quite out of sight, a constant reminder of what awaited her when next he visited and found her attitude less than pleasing. She did not need to face him to know that he was unhappy with her. He was always angry when he caught her trying to escape. It was hopeless, she knew, but she had to try, even if it meant facing his wrath.


Ron had spoken to her today. She had heard his voice as clearly as if he had been standing next to her. In fact, she had turned towards him, a smile on her face, hoping that perhaps he was rescuing her. The smile had quickly faded when she found herself alone. He had been urging her to fight, to find a way back to them, and she had felt hope enter her once again for the first time in days. Wasting no time, she had begun to pulling books from the bookcase, hoping that one might somehow trigger a means of escape. She had only managed to get through one row when she heard him speak, the hope dying with those seven words.


"Ginevra, I am speaking to you," he said sharply.


Ginny set the book down before facing him. He was wearing a robe that was almost the same dark green as his eyes, the candlelight emphasizing the dark blue highlights in his black hair, and his lips curved into a sinister smile as she looked at him. Lowering her eyes, her voice was soft but firm as she said, "I’m sorry, Tom."


"Why are you sorry?"


Biting her lip, she fought the impulse to attack him, wanting to scream, bite, hit, anything other than quietly submit. She had tried that, at first, and the pain had been unbelievable. He had wasted no time letting her know exactly what would happen if she fought him more than he found entertaining. "I am sorry for trying to leave you, Tom."


"Your words lack sincerity, Ginevra." Fingers gripped her chin, forcing her head up. Unreadable green eyes stared at her intently. "I thought we had learned this lesson all ready, my dear. What are my three rules?"


"I will never lie to you. I will have no secrets from you." There was a slight pause of hesitation before she finished. "I will never leave you."


"Very good, my sweet." His eyes narrowed as he asked, "What rules have you broken recently?"


"All of them," she whispered fearfully, flinching when his fingers tightened their grip on her chin. His other hand moved along her hair, almost gentle, before he grasped the auburn strands and forced her head back.


"It pains me to keep reminding you of such simple rules. You are mine, Ginevra. You have been mine for years. Why do you continue to insist on denying the inevitable?"


Before Ginny could reply, he was dragging her towards the bed. She tried to struggle, but it was no use. He was slender but strong, easily forcing her back onto the mattress. Looking into his handsome face, their eyes met and her body started to relax.


"Constringo," he said as he held her arms above her head, not releasing them until the spell was in effect. Content that she was now secured to the bed, he smiled pleasantly as his finger traced the curve of her right cheek. "I will teach you once more, my sweet, but this will be the last time."


Standing gracefully, his elegant hands unfastened his robe, her eyes watching his movements attentively. He placed it neatly over the back of the desk chair before unbuttoning his white shirt. When it was removed and carefully folded, he turned back to her. His skin was pale, his chest void of hair save for a scattering of dark curls on his lower abdomen that disappeared into the waist of his trousers. He was slim, too thin for his slightly above average height, but she knew the power he possessed, the strength in his arms. She had seen the muscles as he had swung the whip repeatedly, as he had held her against the wall or the bed.


"Accio knife." The words immediately drew her attention, her observations of the man who held her captive forgotten instantly when she saw the glint of the sharp blade. He sat beside her, seemingly amused by the panic in her eyes as he moved the blade over his hand, his thumb brushing against the metal to test its sharpness. When she saw the blood, she whimpered and tried to move away.


He smiled then, his eyes intense as he brought the knife to his face. Ginny watched him lick his blood from the blade before he brought it to rest against her neck. She didn’t move as she felt the wet metal against her skin, not even breathing for fear of what he might do next. Out of all his games, this was the one that scared her the most. She had never been fond of knives, not since she was six and had cut her hand on one of her Mum’s kitchen knives. It had been extremely painful and there had been so much blood that she had developed a bit of a phobia around sharp objects. He knew she hated blades and that was why it had become one of his favorite amusements.


No time was wasted as he began to cut her robes. She listened as the material was ripped along the edge of the knife. There was no resistance and she was soon lying on the tattered remains of the burgundy robe. He was not finished, she soon realized, as she watched the tip of the blade move along her collarbone. When he pushed it against her skin, she bit her lip to keep from crying out, having no interest in provoking him even more. Tom cut the straps of her brassiere, the knuckles of his right hand pressing against her breastbone as he gripped the flimsy material and then pulled, ripping it from her body.


Ginny gasped at the sting on her back from where it had ripped, not even realizing that he had broken through her skin until she felt his wet tongue on the top of her breast. Looking down, her eyes widened as she saw the knife cutting a swirl into her freckled skin. She was bleeding, a dull pain in her breast beginning to throb, and then his mouth was on her. Licking away the blood, his lips kissing the wound, teeth blunt against her flesh as he nibbled on her breast.


The pain was soon secondary to the pleasure as he drew her nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking the hardened bud, his right hand caressing her left breast as he concentrated on the right. Her breasts were small but perky, his large hand easily enveloping the globe of flesh. When a moan escaped her lips, he released her nipple and looked at her, a smug smile crossing his full lips before the knife dug into the tender skin of the other one. Another swirl, blood, pain, and pleasure. Ginny closed her eyes as he moved down her body, the knife cutting her randomly, his tongue always following the same path.


By the time he reached her belly button, Ginny was covered in a sheen of sweat, saliva, and blood. Her skin was flushed, her breathing ragged, and her knickers soaked. When her panties were removed, she didn’t feel fear when the flat side of the knife was pressed intimately against her. Instead, she felt aroused, her juices sticky against the blade as he moved it up and down, rubbing it against her. She cried out when his hand moved suddenly, her inner thigh cut swiftly.


"You will never lie to me, Ginevra." His thumb moved over the fresh wound, smearing her blood before he stood. Her eyes were now wide open, her thigh pulsing from the depth of the cut, and she could see the tinge of her blood on his chest and lips. He put the knife on the desk, his back to her for a moment. She rubbed her legs together, moaning softly as the cut began to throb.


"Stop."


One word, harsh and demanding, softly spoken but causing an instant halting of her movements. Looking at him, she spread her legs apart, her fingernails digging into her palms as she ignored the need between her legs. He was holding a burning candle when he sat back down. Her body reacted as she stared at the flame, wetness dripping from her cunt as she moved against the blanket in anticipation of what was to come.


"What do you want, my sweet?" he asked in a teasing voice, knowing exactly what she wanted. Arching a raven brow, he mused, "Do you want me to touch you? Do you want to feel this melted wax against your skin? Tell me what you want."


"I want whatever you wish to give me, Tom," she said softly, watching the approval flash in his eyes, knowing she had answered correctly.


He brought the candle above her chest, turning it just enough so that wax dripped onto her. Ginny moaned as she felt the hot liquid against her body, his breath cool as he blew on the melted candle. The next time the candle was closer, the pain greater as the drops splashed against her skin. She was soon writhing on the bed, her hair sticking to her sweaty face, her body on fire as he dripped melted wax over the cuts he had previously made.


Tom moved between her legs, his lips curving into a smug smile as he leaned down and blew out the flame. His eyes watched her face as he slid the still warm candle into her. She groaned as she felt the sticky wax pushing inside her, moving away from his hand, not wanting him to do this. It stung as he began to thrust it in and out of her, the wax sticking to the sides of her cunt. His thumb and forefinger twisted her clit roughly as he said, "You will never keep secrets from me."


Her body reacted to the stimulation, her hips arching off the bed as she tried to take more of the hard length of the candle into her. When his finger slid over the cut on her leg, she came with a soft cry of his name. He pulled the candle from her, uttering a scourgify to remove the wax from her cunt. She was still consumed by her orgasm, only distantly hearing him unfastening his trousers, her body accepting him eagerly when his cock entered her.


There was no pretense of gentleness as he thrust into her, his hands moving over her body, twisting and pinching, reopening the wounds he made previously. She was driven into the mattress with each stroke, her foot moving over his leg as she adjusted positions so he would enter her more deeply. She knew she should not be enjoying this, knew it was wrong to welcome him in this way, knew she should be ashamed of wanting him so desperately, but she cared about nothing at the moment except having him inside her.


His lips caught hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth possessively, claiming her. She moved beneath him, returning his kiss eagerly as she surrendered to him completely. He moved her leg over his shoulder, his body pressing against hers more intimately with each thrust. When he released her mouth, he looked into her eyes, a familiar smile on his lips as he moved deeper, faster, his release approaching. "Tell me, Ginevra."


"I will never leave you, Tom," she moaned as pleasure consumed her, his arms around her as he came with a low grunt. "I will never leave you. Never leave. Never."


"Did you hear that?"


Hermione stopped reading, looking up to see Ron staring at Ginny. Sighing softly, she closed her book, knowing that Tolkien could wait for another day. "What did you hear?"


"She said something. I heard her, Hermione. I swear I heard her." Ron looked from the pale girl lying in the hospital bed to the brunette witch sitting beside her. His eyes were sad as he softly said, "You didn’t hear her, did you?"


"I’m so sorry, honey," Hermione moved from her chair to stand beside her boyfriend. She hugged him when he turned towards her, squeezing him tight as she comforted him. "The mediwitch did say she showed signs of improvement after your visit this afternoon. Maybe she will wake up soon."


"They’ve been saying she might come out of it for nearly a year now. She still just lies there staring at nothing, not making a sound. There are times that I’m not even sure she’s breathing! Why won’t she come back to us, Hermione? Why won‘t she wake up?"


"I don’t know, Ron." She held him as he clung to her, wishing she had an answer as she looked over his shoulder at Ginny. The redhead witch was breathing softly, her eyes open but unseeing. Moving her hand through Ron’s hair, she whispered, "I just don’t know."

The End.